Blood on my hands
by BrowneyedShamer
Summary: AU There is a new puppet master in town! Jim Moriarty isn't a criminal mastermind and Sherlock isn't the consulting detective out to stop him. They're just two men who work for HIM -because it's entertaining- cleaning the scum of the earth. SH/JW/JM
1. Chapter 1

_&#^ ?* ($(#& *$*#% My brain hates me!_

**WARNING! Torture, cursing, and dark dark thoughts**

**Blood on my Hands**

**Chapter 0-****prologue**

Jim looked down at his bloodstained hands feeling slightly repulsed. It was warm and sticky but not in the good way that cum feels coated on his skin but the grossness of when someone else sneezes on you. Jim always wanted to pull a gun out and shove it in their mouth for even attempting to get their bodily fluids on him without permission. The blood only held distain and messiness. If he was honest and being a genius he normally was, he did it because it made HIM happy. HE liked to see Jim's bloody hands and had licked them clean on more than one occasion.

"Feel the rush my dear." Jim sing-songed lightly to himself.

James Moriarty might have been the most dangerous consulting criminal and self-diagnosed evil mastermind with the only consulting detective and self-diagnosed sociopath as his arch-nemesis but his one pride in life was that smile. The smile that told him he had done a good job. That he had made HIM pleased.

It would surprise the rest of the pathetic world that Jim was not the Puppet master, he just happened to be one of the main characters. He loved his part, enjoyed every minute of it. Sherlock did to. The world was dull, so dull but HE made the boringness fade away. HE was the drug of choice for the two rival geniuses, who had struck up a rocky friendship years ago.

Jim didn't share much but for HIM he'd make the exception, or more of HE told him to and Jim did so happily.

Looking up from his still bloody hands the 'evil criminal mastermind' sat down against the nearest wall in the empty room. Blankly staring that the blood pooling around his latest 'victim,' who had various lacerations and bruises all over his body. A forty-five year old man who had raped his twin daughters at the age of eleven and continued to do so for years, the girls had finally reached out after one of them got pregnant. HE smoothly and gently dealt with the girls, helping the younger one get an abortion and relocate to a quiet town in the country. Then HE sent Jim out to rid the world of a man no one would miss. The scum of the earth cleaned by Jim, ordained by light, at least Jim's personal god.

It was just as it had been and will always be. HE finds those in need and sends out either his cleaner, Jim or his destroyer, Sherlock. Then the media is alerted and Mycroft ties it all into a neat bow to hand to Lestrade who feeds it to the public, without them ever aware that there is a single man who is judge, jury and executioner for most of the civilized world.

It was twelve minutes past one in the morning and Jim was in an abandoned building on the third floor. His dark suit splattered with blood from his lesson. It wouldn't have been fair for the rapist pig to leave this earth if he didn't learn something before he had departed. So Jim had taken it upon himself to teach the mad, but sadly the man only lasted three hours into the session. The cold wind of August drifted through the old building reminding Jim of the deceased man's moans of pain. A single fluorescent lamp shone in the dark room, obscured by a black out curtain over the window that fluttered with the breeze.

The warm blood started to cool on his hands as footsteps pounded in the distance and the door to the small room was thrown open. Sherlock stood in his tight pants and purple shirt that made the general population swoon over. The other genius frowned at the mess Jim had caused as he had joyously tortured and killed the portly man for his crimes against his daughters. Jim thought it was only fair the man experience some pain before he died.

"A bit much," Sherlock commented with a raised eyebrow but Jim knew the tall man couldn't give a flying flip. It was a job. Jim got rid of the sodding bastards, and then Sherlock came in and cleaned up after him, hence why he was sitting against the wall, waiting to clean himself up

Jim giggled manically. "Call it a crime of passion. I was passionately pissed at the bloody git."

Sherlock nodded but remained silent as he moved around the room to help Jim stand up. Jim let out another fit of giggles as his eyes landed on the cooling body and the look of horror etched into the man's dead face. It was so nice to hurt another, the screams of pain where like a symphony to his ears, and it made it all the better that HE was pleased about the man's suffering and it was a bonus that what Jim did actually helped other, but mainly made HIM happy.

That's why he did it. That's why his hands where coated in blood. For HIM

He briefly wondered how the dull world would react to know….to know the full truth?

* * *

Short little prelude into the big picture

**Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**WARNING! Dark dark thoughts**

**I realize this chapter will be a bit of a surprise but I promise it's for a reason. Jim's not that crazy yet. He needed a reason to turn into our beloved psychopath!**

**sorry about posting my arkenstone chapter!**

**Chapter one**

After Sherlock had taken his sweet time wiping the crime scene clean of Jim's existence and delicately re-placing it with another wanted criminals DNA and fingerprints, Jim was allowed to move to another room and change from his bloodied suit a fresh new one. That room was also immaculately cleaned of their presence. Sherlock snapped off his blue latex gloves and threw them in the black garbage bag holding another one of Jim's ruined suits, the black-out curtain and all the cleaned evidence. The lamp was also dismantled and thrown into the industrial large black bag. The two men had to wait a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the absence of light before they continued working in the dark. Neither of the geniuses spoke to each other during this process.

After fifteen minutes they emerged out the back door and entered into a black sedan patiently waiting on the nearest dark corner with its lights off. The corner cameras turned away from their expedition and the streetlights went out. They were just two lean shadows.

"Successful night," Jim commented, drumming his fingers against his knee in the dark car.

"Not boring at all," Sherlock agreed finally turning to his 'friend' and smiling bright at today's challenge.

Jim had committed four murders for Sherlock to come behind and clean. It was always thrilling for Sherlock to decide how the bodies would be found and after how long. To the self-diagnosed sociopath cleaning up and destroying murder scenes were like Christmas Presents; some were wrapped in pretty paper and others newspaper, while some were in the front and other hidden in the back. A few of Jim's more intricate murders where still lying in wait to be found.

The two men had been busy cleaning since five that morning. Neither stopping for lunch nor dinner, the adrenaline and the dopamine highs that came with their jobs kept them at bay, but as the day had waned down they started to sag with exhaustion.

"He'll be pleased," Jim said with a fond smiling, glancing out the tinted windows of the dark car and at the silent dull city.

Sherlock mirrored Jim's happy smile. "I do believe he will."

The rest of the ride was silent as the black car dropped them off at a large white house. Sherlock left the bag of evidence in the floor, knowing it would be taken care of. The two men quietly made their way into the building heading straight up the stairs and turning left. Mycroft was leaning against the wall in the dark hallway a deep frown on his face.

It wasn't the least bit odd to see the posh man up at such an ungodly hour, it was his hair, which was normal slicked back and perfect that was strange. But in the early hours of two am, Mycroft's brown hair was spiked and messy where he had run his hands through it. Two pairs of observant eyes noticed this and the bags under his eyes, his sagged posture and his red tipped fingers from pounding his keys while typing.

"He's not happy at all," Mycroft hissed. Sherlock and Jim's faces fell. "You've been unreachable for the last twelve hours."

"We were working, which is what you should have been doing. I almost got caught; then he'd really be pissed," Sherlock hissed back, but his eyes flickered past his brother and down the hallway to rest on the last door with a thin crack of light under it.

The rest of the house was dark and silent; keeping the illusion of being asleep like London was supposed to be doing. The other occupants of the house were also out on various jobs or actually sleeping, which Jim wished he could do. He was growing tired and the thought of his bed was sounding sweeter by the moment. He didn't want to listen to the petty sibling rivalry. He wanted to check in and then crawl into his bed. Mycroft glared at his brother but didn't rise to the bait; instead he waved the two men towards the door, following behind them as they walked.

Jim opened the door, without knocking, and walked in. The room was lined with bookshelves and a fire flickered in a marble fireplace to the right. A large oak desk sat in front of a tall window covered in dark burgundy curtains. There were two red leather couches in front of the fire place. All three men ignored the seats and stood in front of the desk. The chair was turned around and the occupant obscured.

"We completed our mission," Jim stated.

Silence.

Beside him Sherlock shifted and frowned deeply, that wasn't supposed to happen. HE was supposed to turn around and smile brightly at them and then say how proud he was, not ignore them. The silence confused the two geniuses and made them anxious, but neither one spoke up.

"The man was taken care of," Jim said again, his voice rising higher this time and was again met with silence.

Mycroft coughed into his hand and slowly the chair swiveled around. A man sat in the brown high back seat. Jim and Sherlock exchanged confused glances. This wasn't their employer, it looked nothing like him. The military background was the only similarity.

Why was a stranger in HIS seat?

The intruder had short redish-brown hair and a five o'clock shadow, his hands and posture spoke of military and his history with guns. He was an only child and recently let go from the only life he'd ever known. Jim sighed with frustration, he was another stray.

"Ah, there you two are," HIS light voice exclaimed carrying his happy tone with him like a warm summer breeze.

"John," Sherlock and Jim sighed, turning to find said man standing in the door way carrying a tray of tea sandwiches, crisps and drinks.

John Watson, ex-army doctor and all around good human being walked over to the table between the two couches and set down the tray he had been balancing. Setting a plate and cup at each place before waving the two geniuses over. Jim and Sherlock didn't hesitate to do as commanded and sat across from John who smiled warmly as they started to nibble on the offered food. Mycroft stood behind John, leaning on the couch.

"I heard you two did a wonderful job, I'm very proud."

Sherlock looked down with a hint of a blush on his pale cheeks while Jim met the sky blue eyes twinkling at him and returned the smile. That smile and those words, made his life worth living. Jim forgot about the stranger, pushed Mycroft's trickery from his mind and just basked in the sky blue eyes smiling at him, only him.

Damn the world.

The stranger coughed, drawing Jim's attention away from John. He frowned in annoyance. John sheepishly smiled.

"How rude of me, this is Colonel Sebastian Moran."

"Yes we know-," Sherlock started.

"But what is he doing here," Jim finished.

John leaned back on the leather couch, his warm blue eyes sharpening as he regarded his two best workers. "I have decided it would be best for you two to work away from each other and branch out."

"Lestrade can be so dense," Sherlock whined

"I don't trust strangers," Jim commented at the same time.

Mycroft sighed deeply at the two men, who were reduced to complaining children in the presence of their employer

Jim snarled angrily and harshly yanked on his tie, pulling the fabric from its own hold about to throw it on the ground. "What's wrong with what we're doing now?"

John smiled softly, reaching across the table to take hold of Jim's tie, pulling the man towards him. Their faces where inches apart and with every word John's breath warmed Jim's skin, sending shivers of pleasure down his spine. Jim would happily drown in the sweet smell and warmth of John. Oh how he wanted to reach out and snuggle into the crock of John's neck and inhale the man.

"I thought you loved games and here I am offering you a chance not to be bored."

Jim let go and gave in. whatever John wanted he wanted. He was forever at the man's beck and call. John wanted a body, he'd happily murder. Money, he'd steal.

Anything.

Sherlock looked just as fascinated as the words left John's mouth. Jim leaned forward slightly hoping their lips might touch if only for a moment. A hard slap connected with his face as his lip split and a trickle of blood ran down his cheek. John Watson lowered his right hand and with his left rubbed the blood off of Jim's lips before taking the bloody thumb to his own lips with a low moan. Jim had to chant inside his mind to ease the tight tension in his pants. John sucking his blood turned him on.

"Jim you're free," John said as he stood up. Leaving the shell-shocked and badly turned on genius on the couch. Sherlock looked just as hot and bothered. His pink lips turning red from where he had bitten them.

"No," he whispered in disbelief.

James Moriarty looked up at his God. He had never cried in his life. Not when he had shoved a knife in his step fathers gut, watching the red blood spill over his hands and onto the white tile floor of their kitchen and not when his mother wasted away with cancer. He never shed a tear when he was tortured or when every person he loved abandoned him. But John's words cut deeper into him, right to the core and Jim was sure tears where flowing down his cheeks but he was too numb to feel.

Sherlock looked at his 'friend' with sympathy. They were lost until John found them and gave them purposes in life. Gave them adventure and constant stimulation.

John ignored Jim's whispered pleas of 'no' and turned to Sherlock. "You are also freed."

"What?"

"I am taking a vacation of sorts."

"Let me come with you," Jim pleaded. "Don't leave me alone."

John waved his hand at the Colonel. "My old friend is here to serve you Jim, you will not be alone." He looked at Sherlock. "Mycroft has arranged for Lestrade to be at your call."

"Why are you doing this?" Jim choked.

John frowned his blue eyes growing dark. "I'm in a lot of trouble and I can't afford to have my two favorite people caught up in this," he walked forward until he stood in front of them. A hand reached out to cup each of their cheeks. "Do not fear I will be back, until that time I want you to give the world hell. Be my black and white knights."

Jim clutched the hand cupping his cheeks wanting to imprint the feel of it into his mind.

John left in the dead of night just as he had come to them. He was like a ghost or specter. All traces of him gone. Only the stinging pain on his cheek remained Jim he was ever there. That night huddled in his bed Jim clutched the cheek John had hit and then held. He hoped the pain would stay with him forever, but to his dismay the next morning it was better.

It took him two weeks to except the help of Sebastian and take over the underworld. Chanting he would destroy the world that took John from him.

**Thanks for reading!**

**All I could think of as I wrote this was "Destroy the world Jim, let it burn!"**

Aeryn- Hope this chapter is up to your standards

BloodyRosie- I'm glad you loved it. Jim's only going to get worse

FifthDayofMay- Cool name. hahaha Loved how you threw your computer on the ground like thor!

Ishtar205-Here is the next chapter

Cally- I am mad...but it's a good thing….I hope!


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